


that's my lap

by Possette



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Food, Implied Sexual Content, Italy, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29154069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Possette/pseuds/Possette
Summary: "Can I sit here?"For a moment, Illya looks confused. As if he doesn't know what on Earth Napoleon is talking about. His eyes trail to the cowboy's fingers that were gesturing downwards, and he raises a brow at him."That's my lap."
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	that's my lap

**Author's Note:**

> Another Illyeon oneshot owo I was asked by my best friend to do this prompt, so here it is. I don't know her user on AO3, so yeah. She shall stay _anonymous _.__
> 
> _  
> _Anyhow, enjoy.__  
> 

The team was currently having a week off to themselves, and knowing overly-cautious Illya, he had decided to convince Napoleon into renting a fairly small inn in Sperlonga, Italy. Gaby had refused to join them as she had already decided to pay a few days' visit to her friends back in East Berlin. Speaking of the little chop shop girl, they haven't heard from her since Thursday, the day when Waverly had given them a paycheck gift of ten grand each. They didn't worry about Gaby though, she was feral enough to keep shady men a mile behind the line that they weren't allowed to cross.

Napoleon let out a sigh as he stood in front of the window, wooden hatches kept open by a sturdy piece of stick. The room they were staying in wasn't grandeur as how Napoleon would call, but it was definitely a much-needed break from all that extravaganza of suites and restaurants back at the city. The waves at sea crashed and fell, seagulls screeching as they soared in the late afternoon air. The beach wind smelled salty and calming, it could probably be a remedy for the American who has done nothing but inhale carbon dioxide from those cars.

Illya was settled in their shared room's sofa, reading an Italian book he had conveniently found in the mini shelf that was built at the foot of his bed. He looked absolutely immersed in a novel that wasn't of his language, but nevertheless he was already halfway through the medium, blue eyes ever so focused on the series of words that Napoleon was familiar with. Solo abandoned his spot from the window to take something out of the fridge that stood lonely in a corner of their room, producing a brand new bottle of wine. It was red wine.

He sat down at the dining table as he poured himself a few ounces into a mug. It looked rigid, having wine from an old mug. But Napoleon couldn't be bothered to take the stairs to the lovely maiden at the reception desk, he felt like lazing around in his room for the rest of the day. He swept a glance at his watch. Eighteen-hundred. It was nearing dinnertime and they still haven't decided on what to get for their meals, Illya was still reading away on his book anyway. _"Sono io, il tuo nubile"_. Huh, that's the book title, sounds like a classic.

Napoleon continued to take graceful swigs until he had finished about two mugs. Now that wasn't enough to get him drunk, but he was a tad too tipsy for his liking. He put the bottle away and sat back on his bed as he flipped through the menu that he had stolen from the restaurant down the road. What? It's just paper leaflets glued together to become a booklet, nothing much of value. Mentally settling for an _antipasto, secondo,_ and _dolci_ , Solo sighs again and stands up to walk over to Illya and drapes himself on the other side of the sofa, opposite to the Russian.

"Peril?"

His partner merely grunts in acknowledgement to the mention of his nickname.

"What do you wish to have for dinner?"

Illya lifts his eyes for a brief second to glimpse at the paper in the cowboy's hands before proceeding to nose the book, replying with a,

"Same as yours."

Napoleon cocks his brows in question. He was sure that Illya wouldn't want a _dolci_ for dinner, he never wants one.

"Are you sure?"

"What are you getting?"

"A _crostini toscani_ , _filetti di branzino alla ligure_ , and also a _gelato_."

Illya just stares at Napoleon in disbelief, as if he was offended by the man's choice of food. Napoleon returns the look with a slight gesture indicating his hunger.

"You are having lunch at evening, stupid cowboy."

Illya lets out an indignant scoff when Napoleon feigns heartbreak, turning back to his book when he had finished rolling his eyes at the American.

"I'll have the first two, I cannot eat any ice cream for dinner."

"Come on, Peril! What's the harm in having a little bit of guilty pleasure for the evening?"

The Russian holds back a choke at how Napoleon had said it, _he makes these simple things sound like an erotic novel_. He exhales through his nose and flips to the next page even though he hasn't finished comprehending the previous page's paragraphs. He could only focus on how the couch slightly tilted towards his East, Napoleon seeming a bit too light. From the corner of his peripheral vision, he could see how his partner was doubling on his meal's choices. Bottom lip jutted out in thought, deep blue eyes staring in concentration on the Italian characters, and soft-looking trimmed locks framing his perfect model face. Illya could properly understand why women and occasionally men would constantly throw themselves at the man; he looked like those perfectly sculpted statues he had seen at the museum earlier today. They had looked so beautiful, so godly, so sad, so flawless— 

Illya realized he was making a description of Napoleon himself.

Illya cleared his throat with a cough and Napoleon looked over his shoulder just in time to see the Russian crossing his leg over the other. It was obvious that Illya was trying to hide the outline of his slight erection. Napoleon chuckled to himself as he let go of the polo shirt he was holding, the soft fabric falling mutely back into its suitcase. He sauntered over to the sofa again and stood in front of Illya who in turn stared at Napoleon's bare feet.

"Peril,"

Napoleon reaches out delicately to trace his partner's sharp jaw, Illya tilts his head up. His ice blue eyes looked very dashing, their hue looking a bit lighter than his, which were of a slightly vibrant tone.

"What is it?"

The American inches closer to Illya. Their soft breathes slowly start to harmonize.

"Can I sit here?"

For a moment, Illya looks confused. As if he doesn't know what on Earth Napoleon is talking about. His eyes trail to the cowboy's fingers that were gesturing downwards, and he raises a brow at him.

"That's my lap."

"And I said what I said."

Napoleon tosses a cheeky smile at the Russian, and Illya finally understands his motive. Drawing his chest back, he leans into the sofa's back with a soft laugh omitting from his mouth. Illya spreads his arms out and Napoleon invites himself into the bigger man's embrace, his knees on either side of Illya's hips. He nuzzles his face into the crook of his partner's neck as he inhaled the musky scent of country air and brand new soap.

"What about our dinner?"

Napoleon asks once the sun had finally and completely set, darkness now taking over the water horizon. Illya had refused to let go of him.

"The lady at the reception desk can pick it up."

It's Napoleon's turn to laugh, letting out a small yelp when Illya stands to hoist Napoleon's legs around his legs.

Boy, this was going to be a long night in Sperlonga.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the cliffhanger that's never going to be finished.
> 
> _vamoosh bamoosh i have now evaporated **whoosh**_


End file.
